


What We Deserve

by RogueBelle



Series: Afterwards [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Idiots in Love, Implied Cersei Lannister/Jaime Lannister, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, implied unrequited Tyrion Lannister/Sansa Stark, seriously these two need so many wingmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 17:13:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18721432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueBelle/pseuds/RogueBelle
Summary: Jaime and Brienne have capitulated to their feelings for each other, but there's still a lot to sort out. Fortunately, Tyrion is on hand to give his big brother the necessary nudge.'Talk to her. Tell her. If you can’t tell her, there’s truly no one.' He thinks of that day in the Harrenhal baths, when he unburdened his soul to her. The first time, in truth, that he had ever let anyone within the guarded gates of his heart. Certainly Cersei had never wanted to hear about his demons. ‘She was too busy feeding them.’





	What We Deserve

**Author's Note:**

> Well, apparently I _wasn't_ quite done yet.
> 
> This follows [There Is an Afterwards](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18673453), as it seems I had more to say about these two, and needed to say it before tonight's episode either makes or breaks us. Prayer circle, y'all.
> 
> (I also snuck in a single line from Shakespeare. Who can find it? ;) )

Were it anyone else, Tyrion would raise a glass in salute. Somehow, though, he suspects that Brienne of Tarth would little appreciate his acknowledgment of the abandonment of her virginity.

He’s not quite sure how he knows, for certain, that she and Jaime did precisely what he was hoping they would do, when he dragged Podrick off in search of wine. It’s not as though you can tell just by looking at someone. To anyone else’s eyes --  _ ‘Except Jaime’s, I’m sure’  _ \-- she appears no different. Tall and solid, her features set in a look of grim determination, as though the work of carting corpses to the fields outside Winterfell’s shattered walls were just another unpleasant chore to get through. She’s as taciturn as ever, save for when she barks instructions at Podrick or another one of the soldiers who have fallen under her command -- and more than a few have, whether or not they were hers the night before. Ser Brienne maybe not be the most charismatic or inspiring figure around, but in the aftermath of such horror, there’s something reassuring about her, and it drew a fair number into following her lead during the hours of gruesome work. She is, has always been,  _ dependable _ , above all other things, and the terrors of the Long Night did not change that.

_ ‘So what is it?’ _ Tyrion wonders that evening, watching as she takes a bowl of stew and passes it to Podrick before claiming one for herself.  _ ‘Why am I so certain?’ _

Then Jaime enters the hall, and Brienne’s head turns towards him hardly before he’s past the threshold.

_ ‘There it is.’ _

Ever since arriving at Winterfell, Jaime has been unable to keep his eyes off of her.  _ ‘It’s almost adorable. My big brother, a lovestruck puppy.’  _ Either he isn’t aware how obvious he’s being, or he doesn’t care. But now she’s seeking him out, too, where before she had averted her eyes.  _ ‘No, she doesn’t even have to seek. She’s attuned to him, and he to her.’ _

From Podrick, Tyrion has heard how the battle went for them. He almost wishes he could have seen it. Jaime has always been a wonder to behold while fighting. The loss of his hand may have thrown him off for a while, but he’s too stubborn to have allowed that to entirely undo what he made of himself over so many years. Time and training have given him back both strength and fluidity.  _ ‘To have seen them fighting back-to-back, defending Winterfell with two halves of Ned Stark’s famed sword -- Yes, that is the sort of thing the songs will be made of. Ser Jaime and Ser Brienne, fending off the night, together.’ _

Podrick sets his bowl down next to Tyrion, though he doesn’t sit -- won’t, Tyrion knows, until Brienne does. And Brienne is still standing, staring at Jaime as he beelines towards her. There might as well be no-one else in the hall, for all he cares.  _ ‘No one could ever accuse my brother of a lack of focus, when he’s got something to care about.’ _

And now, close up, Tyrion can see the telltale marks upon them both. He hasn’t been near enough to them till now. His arms would have been of little use hauling bodies; his mind was put to work instead, helping Lady Sansa figure out how to feed, clothe, and shelter the survivors.  _ ‘But now…’ _

Jaime has the same awe-struck look on his face he’s been wearing for most of the past few days, except when imminent death was upon them, but now there’s a slight upturn to his mouth, just at the corners. The mooning expression is no longer hopeless, Tyrion realizes.  _ ‘As for Ser Brienne, well, if we were generous, we  _ _ might _ _ excuse her flushed cheeks as natural, coming from long hours of hard work out in the cold -- but not the nervous flutter of her eyelashes, not the way her gaze keeps drifting rather immodestly down Jaime’s person.’ _

“Brienne--” Jaime begins, but she cuts him off by shoving her bowl of stew at his chest.

“Here,” she says. “Sit. Take this. I’ll get another.”

Jaime tries to push the bowl back at her. “No, I can--”

“Truly, take it--”

“That’s really not necessary--”

_ ‘Idiots,’ _ Tyrion thinks, smiling.  _ ‘Oh, you precious idiots.’ _

They stand there, three hands on the same bowl, both too pig-headed to accept it, until Podrick clears his throat. “Ser Jaime, here, I haven’t touched mine yet. I’ll go up and get another and see if I can snag some bread for us all, as well.”

He darts off before either of them can argue, and Tyrion feels a little burst of pride.  _ ‘Ser Brienne may be teaching the boy how to fight, but damn if I might not have taught him a thing or two about how to think.’ _

Jaime waits until Brienne sits down, then slips in between her and Tyrion. They’re quiet, sipping their stew and casting sidelong glances at each other. “I never thought,” Tyrion murmurs above his own bowl, “that I would be dependent upon  _ Podrick _ for adequate conversation.”

_ That _ finally earns him a glance from Jaime -- or, rather, a glare. Tyrion just grins, exchanges his stew bowl for his wine goblet, and drinks deep.

Podrick returns and sits across the table from Brienne, bearing a hunk of brown bread. As they each tear off a hunk, Pod’s chatter about the kitchen staff fills the silence. A few moments later, another approaches their table. Her skirts are too heavy to whisper as she moves; they are stiff as a winter wind, and the lady who wears them just as inexorable. “Lady Sansa,” Tyrion says. They all start to stand, but she waves a hand to stop them.

“Don’t be ridiculous, please keep eating.” Hands clasped before her, she angles herself towards Brienne. “Lady Brienne--”

“Ser Brienne,” Jaime corrects her. Sansa blinks in surprise, and Tyrion wonders if it’s more at the information or at Jaime having the nerve to interrupt her. Jaime blinks, seeming to have realized his potential misstep. “She’s been knighted.  _ I  _ knighted her.” He swallows visibly. “Before the battle.”

Tyrion is not so good a brother that he does not enjoy Jaime’s discomfiture, just a little.  _ ‘Bless him, he can’t even string a sentence together.’ _

Sansa’s cool regard passes from Jaime to Brienne for a moment, then she nods. “Long past time, I should think. Ser Brienne, if your companions can spare you for a moment, I would like you to join me at the high table. Your--” There is only the barest hesitation in her voice, “queen would like a few words.” Sansa’s eyes flick to Tyrion, but they’re free of the judgment and spite he’s seen in them before, when she mentions the Dragon Queen, and he prays that those two have found some rapprochement with each other in the wake of shared tragedy.

_ ‘For if they don’t, I suspect they could tear the realm to shreds between them with alarmingly thorough viciousness. The War of the Five Kings would be nothing next to The War of the Queens.’ _ But the Long Night has given everyone ample opportunity to gain some perspective. Sansa and Daenerys are both strong women,  _ stubborn _ women, but neither of them are without the capacity for self-reflection -- nor self-correction, when it comes to it.  _ ‘Please, let them pull together rather than prowl around each other.’ _

Brienne stands, eager as ever to obey her lady’s command -- but her eyes rest on Jaime for a moment before she follows Sansa to the high table. His gaze follows her until Tyrion, in the perhaps vain hope of capturing his attention for a moment, bumps Jaime’s leg with his own.

“You’re not wearing your hand,” Tyrion observes.

Jaime gives himself a little shake, as though yanking his attention away from Brienne requires physical force. “Damn thing was just getting in my way,” he says. Tyrion sees the fingers of Jaime’s left hand flex, then release -- a nervous habit Jaime picked up from their father, years ago. Even Tywin Lannister had his tells. “It’s useful sometimes, as a balance, or as a secondary weapon, but for today’s work?” He shakes his head. “Just slowing me down.”

“Ser, if I--” Podrick stops himself even before anyone looks at him. “That is, if I might suggest--”

Tyrion half-expects Jaime to snap at the boy to spit it out, but instead he says, quite calmly, “Go on, lad.”

“Well. If you wanted, ser -- if you wanted something different, I mean, something a little…”

“Less decorative and more functional?” Jaime supplies.

“Yes, ser. I was just thinking, that Sam Tarly is clever as anything. I think he’s read every book in the world. Might be he’d have some ideas, on a design for something you’d get a bit more use out of. And the smith Gendry -- don’t think you know him, ser, but he forged about a thousand dragonglass weapons in two days -- anyway, ser, I bet he could make anything Sam could come up with.”

Jaime nods in consideration.  _ ‘These boys,’ _ Tyrion thinks, though none of them are truly boys anymore.  _ ‘These men, who will in time replace us.’ _ A southron-born man of the now-defunct Watch, a bastard Baratheon from King’s Landing, and a Westerlands squire: friends, it would seem, or something like it.  _ ‘These men, who might be able to put back together the world we broke apart.’ _

“It’s a good thought, Pod,” Jaime says. “I’ll try to find a moment to talk to--”

“I can ask him now, ser,” Podrick says, practically leaping up from the table.

Jaime laughs. “I’ve been without it long enough, it’ll keep--”

“Yes, but if we could manage to get something for you before we head south, well, that would be useful, wouldn’t it, ser?” And before Jaime can utter any more dissuading words, Pod is off.

The two Lannister brothers sit, side-by-side, eating their stew in silence for a moment. They’re not precisely alone; people aren’t  _ exactly _ avoiding them. Whatever vitriol the lions may have attracted before the battle, things are different now. Jaime helped to hold the wall, and Tyrion defended the crypt, and those left alive know it. Their slates have not been wiped clean, but they have earned a measure of respect for themselves. Still, in this moment, men and women alike have sought out whomever among their nearest and dearest managed to survive, and so the Lannisters are left to themselves.

Companionable silence has never been something Tyrion does well.

“I would have let you have the room all day, you know,” he says. “All night too, for that matter. I expect Ser Brienne has her own quarters by now, of course, but, well, you were  _ there _ . Podrick and I could’ve found someplace else to bunk down.” Jaime isn’t responding, so Tyrion succumbs to the temptation to make a joke out of dark circumstances. “The crypts, maybe. They were surprisingly comfortable, once you got past all the dead Starks who wanted to kill me even more than the living ones once did.” Still nothing. Time to needle, then, as only a little brother can. “And after what you two have been through, I certainly wouldn’t have begrudged you taking the necessary time to make a thorough job of it.”

“I don’t need all damn day to make a thorough job of it,” Jaime finally growls.

“So am I to understand that you  _ did  _ make  _ some  _ kind of a job of it, then?” Jaime turns sideways on the bench, positioning himself to glare more effectively at his brother. To  _ him _ , Tyrion  _ does _ raise his glass. “Good and noble work, then, dear brother.”

“Why are you enjoying this so much?”

“The truth?” Tyrion presses his lips together for a moment. It would be so easy, of course, to keep tossing out japes. But in the wake of the Long Night, sincerity seems more important than it used to. “Because joy comes well in such a needy time. Because Brienne of Tarth is a good woman. Certainly one of the noblest who has ever had the misfortune to meet  _ me _ .” His own eyes dart to the high table, and the bright red hair of Sansa Stark. “And because… you have always been a better man than you let yourself believe. You have always deserved more than you let yourself have.” Jaime’s lips part in surprise. “I know you, Jaime. You have always been my champion and defender. So I know you are capable of great love and loyalty. You deserve to receive that in return.”

_ ‘And because,’ _ he adds silently,  _ ‘I am unequivocally in favor of anything that guarantees your permanent severance from our darling, duplicitous, madder-than-Aerys sister, who for all her fine words of love and family knows no more of their truth than did our father. Because I want to see you love someone  _ _ good _ _ , someone worthy of devotion.’ _

“I don’t know what I deserve,” Jaime says, and he sounds like he truly means that, like any possible answer would seem plausible to him, no matter how wretched. “But I know she deserves better than me.”

Tyrion aches for his brother, and for himself, too.  _ ‘What a number our father did on the both of us. All our lives, he told us we were never up to the mark. Is it any wonder we fell into the pits we did?’ _

“I think what the lady deserves,” Tyrion says, “is to make that choice on her own.”

Jaime shakes his head and turns aside from Tyrion again, reaching for his own goblet of wine, his fingers curling around it with a desperation that Tyrion knows all too well.

“You’re not doing so bad, really,” Tyrion opines, deliberately lightening his voice. “Granted, most men start small with their courting gifts -- flowers, dainties, books of poetry -- but a sword of Valyrian steel and custom-fit armor do make a grand impression.”

“Those weren’t courting--” But Jaime bites down around the words.

Tyrion cocks his head, scooping up his goblet again. “Weren’t they?” Even above the low roar of conversation in the hall, he can hear Jaime’s teeth grinding together. “It’s  _ alright _ , you know. You’re a knight. You’re allowed to court a fair lady.” He waggles his goblet contemplatively. “Even if said fair lady is, also, a knight. And  _ that _ was a masterstroke, by the way, I don’t believe I’ve complimented you on it yet.”

“She earned that,” Jaime says, his voice heated. “It wasn’t a-- a ploy.”

“No, no,” Tyrion coos. “It was a just and honorable thing to do. But you cannot deny that it also had the not-inappreciable advantage of rescuing her from the attentions of our friend, the giant’s darling.” Tyrion shakes his head. “It takes a lot to put my perversions to shame, but that wildling fellow managed the feat.”

Jaime glances up the hall towards Brienne, who is now sitting awkwardly between Sansa Stark and the Dragon Queen. “I didn’t do that -- any of it -- to  _ win _ her.” A touch of the old sneer is back in his voice at that, as though the very idea is abhorrent. “I did it because…” And there’s that look on his face again, distant and yearning and almost pitiful to behold. “Because she should have all those things. And no one else seemed to want to recognize that. Maybe now, after all she’s done, they’ll be able to see her value.”

“Beyond pearls?” Tyrion offers.

“Beyond sapphires,” Jaime says, quietly. He tears his eyes away from Brienne, looking down into his near-empty bowl. “I hope they do. Lady Stark seems to have a good head on her shoulders, and if your Dragon Queen is all that you think her--”

“She is.”

“--then between the two of them, they should have honors enough to heap on Ser Brienne’s shoulders. They’ll give her what she deserves. And I’ll…”

“You’ll what?” Tyrion watches his brother’s face and speaks his next words carefully -- and quietly, since they  _ are _ still in the middle of the Starks’ hall. “You’ll… go back to King’s Landing?”

“No!” The word rips out of Jaime like a knife from a wound. “Not… not like that, anyway. If I go, it will be at Brienne’s side. If she’ll allow it. For as long as she’ll allow it. We’ll deal with -- whatever we have to deal with --” He seems reluctant to speak Cersei’s name, and Tyrion can’t blame him. Winterfell is dark enough without summoning her shade. “And if the Dragon Queen gets her throne and has any sense, she’ll make Brienne Lady Paramount of the Stormlands, and then I’ll… I’ll...” Apparently unable to complete that though, Jaime scrubs at his face with his right forearm, then takes another deep draught of his wine.

_ ‘Gods,’ _ Tyrion thinks, feeling a sinking sensation beneath his ribs.  _ ‘He loves her, and she loves him, and they might actually be dumb enough to mess that up anyhow.’ _

Well. Not if Tyrion Lannister has anything to say about it.

“Allow me to impart some wisdom,” Tyrion says, patting Jaime’s knee -- perhaps too hard, for Jaime winces, and Tyrion remembers what bruises and other injuries his brother is likely suffering. “Women like it when you talk to them. More effective than any gift, in my experience. So whatever it is making you maudlin, perhaps you should tell  _ her _ .”

 

*

 

As the night wears on, the crowd in the hall thins. Winterfell has not yet been scrubbed entirely clean, and memories of the Long Night may not be something its survivors can ever fully escape, but tonight, perhaps, some of them will sleep, out of sheer exhaustion, if nothing else. Jaime wonders if he’ll be able to.

Podrick rejoins them, as does Brienne, once Lady Sansa and the Dragon Queen both retire. Then Davos, once he has satisfied his self-appointed task of making sure no child in Winterfell missed the evening meal. Then Tormund, and Jaime realizes they have gathered the same group as around the fire before the battle.  _ ‘Only a night ago.’ _ It seems a lifetime.

They are not alone in the hall. There are young men dicing in a corner. A few soldiers have, understandably, imbibed too much and passed out on the long tables. Far to the side, the girl from Naath and the leader of the Unsullied sit in quiet conversation, their hands clasped together. Near the hearth, two young women and an older man are playing on pipes. The mood is calm, relaxed, a world apart from the tension, terror, and exhaustion of the past day and night. Tyrion, Tormund, and Davos start up a game of tales, each telling two stories and making everyone guess the true story from the lie. Podrick makes a valiant attempt at playing, but he’s such a bad liar that it goes quite poorly for him. Brienne declines to participate in telling, claiming “I have no head for invention,” but she joins in the guessing.

Jaime declines as well, though he does not offer his reason why.  _ ‘My truths are too terrible.’ _

But as he sits here, listening to Tyrion laugh as Tormund tries to convince them all he once fucked a bear, he realizes how…  _ easy _ it feels, just being around them, odd lot that they are.  _ ‘Something else you never deserved.’ _

When had he felt this camaraderie before? Years ago, perhaps. When Arthur Dayne had knighted a bold young man, prodigiously talented with a sword, who had all the decisions of his life yet to make. Separated from his father and Cersei both, for the first time in his life, Jaime had glimpsed the man he might have grown into, and he had enjoyed the company of his brothers-in-arms. How privileged he had felt, then, not because he was a Lannister lion, but because he was a dazzled youth included in a vaunted circle of hero knights.  _ ‘So brief a time.’ _

Then Aerys, and his madness. Then Robert, and his war. Then Cersei, sinking her claws into him so forcefully he had never gotten free of her.  _ ‘Not until…’ _

He looks sideways at Brienne, who is listening to Davos’s yarn about Braavosi pirates with far more attention than Jaime can spare for it. The smile on her face is nothing to the glorious beam she bestowed upon them all after her knighting. She’s hardly ever so expressive. But those lovely blue eyes are sparkling, and her cheeks are warm and pink.

Then she turns her head, and there’s no way to avoid it: he was staring at her, and they both know it. But instead of ducking her head or turning away, her gaze turns heated, her lips parting slightly.

For that look, Jaime thinks, he’d face the Long Night again.

_ ‘Although I’d much rather spend a night in her company under less perilous circumstances.’ _

He moves his hand, just enough to brush against her leg beneath the table, a light touch with the back of his fingers. It’s a boldness he’s never allowed himself before, something he could never risk, not with Cersei.

Brienne draws a sharp little breath, and Jaime braces himself for her to edge away -- but instead, she drops her hand and laces her fingers with his.

 

*

 

One by one, those remaining in the hall drift away. Podrick, after one too many cups of wine, curls up right there on the bench, and when Davos offers to shake him awake, Brienne waves him off. “He’ll be as comfortable there as he would be on the floor outside my room, which is where he would insist on being if he were awake.”

Jaime can’t suppress a grin.  _ ‘And why, darling wench, wouldn’t you want Podrick sleeping outside your door tonight?’ _ Cause for optimism, that.

Tyrion hops up from the bench. “I am inclined to follow his lead and get some rest, though I shall not turn up my nose at the prospect of a mattress and warm blankets,” he says. “So I shall bid you all adieu. May each of you find the sweet comfort of a bed quite soon.” Jaime does not miss the pointed look with which his brother accompanies that statement.

“He’s right,” Davos says. “I expect there’ll be all sorts of planning and hubbub in the morning. Best be ready for it.”

Davos starts stacking all their goblets and bowls in a tidy line at the edge of the table. Brienne rises to help him, and as soon as she stands, so does Jaime. “May I escort you to your chambers, Ser Brienne?”

Brienne blinks a few times. “Er. Yes.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jaime sees Tormund start to rise, too -- and he also sees Davos’s hand land on the mad wildling’s shoulder, pressing the enormous man firmly back in place. “Well. Good night, then, all. Till morning.”

 

*

 

“What was that about?” Brienne hissed, as soon as they were around the corner into the corridor.

“What do you mean?”

“That, the-- ‘May I escort you, Ser Brienne?’ As if we weren’t-- I mean--” They turn another corner, and this hall isn’t empty, so Brienne clamps her mouth shut, and she doesn’t open it again until she’s shoved open the door to what Jaime presumes are her chambers. Smaller than Tyrion’s -- a bed and a small fireplace, little else. When Jaime shuts the door behind them, she continues, slapping her hands against her thighs in frustration -- and immediately wincing, since she doubtless just hit her own bruises. “Why did you go all strange and formal all of a sudden?”

“ _ That’s _ what you’re angry about?”

“Yes!” Then, just as quickly, “No! I’m-- I’m not angry, I’m not. I’m just confused. I don’t know how we’re meant to-- to act, now. After we--” Brienne makes a frankly adorable face and jerks her head towards the bed. “This is not a situation I’ve ever been in before. I don’t know how to proceed.”

_ ‘Ah.’ _ Jaime opens his mouth to speak, then finds himself laughing instead.

“Jaime Lannister, if you are laughing at me right now, I swear to the Seven--”

He passes his hand over his face. “I’m not. In the sight of the old gods and the new, I swear, I’m not. I’m laughing at me.” He drops his hand, looking her in the eyes. “Do you know what the very worst thing about Tyrion is?”

"What? How are we talking about your--”

“He is  _ right _ with truly annoying frequency.”

Brienne stares at him in bewildered consternation. Jaime sighs and closes the distance between them. She didn’t take the time to slick her hair back today; it’s curling delicately near her face, and Jaime can’t resist brushing his fingers against one bobbing tendril.  _ ‘Talk to her. Tell her. If you can’t tell her, there’s truly no one.’  _ He thinks of that day in the Harrenhal baths, when he unburdened his soul to her. The first time, in truth, that he had ever let anyone within the guarded gates of his heart. Certainly Cersei had never wanted to hear about his demons.  _ ‘She was too busy feeding them.’ _

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, “any more than you do. I don’t know how to court a lady, particularly not one who deserves every respect and honor the gods can bestow. I don’t know how to behave when I don’t have to hide. I only know how  _ I _ learned to love, and what I learned was poison. So it’s not very useful now.”

Her shoulders drop out of their defensive posture, and those gorgeous eyes soften. “How you learned to--”

“Can you doubt it?” he asks, stroking her cheek with his thumb.

Brienne snorts. “Of course I can. Everything in my life has taught me to doubt it.”

There’s no pain in her voice, and somehow that makes it even worse, that she’s so inured to it, so expectant of disappointment. He knows he contributed to that, too, and he’ll never forgive himself for all the harsh words he scorned her with in the early days of their acquaintance.  _ ‘Well. I’ve made a habit of apologies since arriving at Winterfell.’ _ Jaime goes up on his toes to press a kiss to her forehead. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry anyone ever made you feel that way, and I’m more sorry that I can say that I was among that number.”

“Thank you.” Brienne’s hands slide over his chest. “Though I… I said some pretty horrible things to you, too.” He remembers.  _ ‘Kingslayer. Oathbreaker. A man without honor.’ _ Words snapped out like a banner in the wind, emblazoning his myriad shames.

“The difference being, I deserved them.” But Tyrion’s voice echoes in his head.  _ ‘You have always been a better man than you let yourself believe. You have always deserved more than you let yourself have.’  _ She’s long since unsaid all her castigations, anyway. If it took him longer to put his changed feelings into words, well, Tyrion was right there, too. He’s been trying for years now to show what he didn’t know how to say, didn’t even know how to admit that he felt.

His arms go around her, the right locking around her waist, the left rubbing at her back, delighting in the feel of the strong muscles there. “Fine pair we make. All these ragged edges.”

Her mouth twitches a brief smile. “I think we do, actually. Make a fine pair, that is.”

He kisses her then. How could he do anything else? Tenderly at first, then with a swell like a dam breaking when she responds, her lips eagerly parting. Her fingers grip at the front of his shirt, and when her hips cant into his, he feels himself stiffen. Maddening, how much he wants this woman, wants to sink into her and never part.

 

*

 

Their first coupling was all suddenly ignited passion, grasping and half-desperate in the wake of harrowing battle. This time, once they’re bare and stretched out on Brienne’s narrow bed, Jaime moves slowly, reveling in the feel of her body pressed against his -- though it is, admittedly, a bit of a challenge to find unbruised skin on either of them.

“Someday,” he murmurs against her stomach, “when we haven’t both taken the beating of our lives less than a day earlier, I am going to kiss--” He punctuates that  _ with _ a kiss to the underside of her breast. “And lick--” A gentle swirl upwards. “And nibble.” His teeth close just beneath her nipple, and Brienne arches against him. “Every single inch of you.”

“It’s good to have goals,” she says through panting breaths. He traces a strip of ivory skin down her middle, pausing to lick playfully at her navel. When he slides himself farther down her body, nipping at her hipbone, she sucks in a hissing breath. “Are you going to use your mouth again?”

“Oh yes,” Jaime replies, running his lips over the crease where her thigh meets her hip, tracing it down to her juncture. “Try and stop me.”

“Certainly won’t.”

As he laps at her, drinking her in, Brienne pushes herself up on one elbow, watching him intently. Her cheeks are a vivid red, her breathing rapid and shallow, and the sight of her gazing down on him with such hungry focus is so arousing that Jaime worries, for a moment, that he might not even make it inside her before spending himself this time. He props his weight on his maimed arm and presses two fingers into her, building a slow rhythm with mouth and hand. Her eyes flutter closed and her head falls back as she surrenders, overwhelmed by sensation. “Jaime…” she sighs, her fingers digging deep into the bed beneath her. “Oh,  _ fuck _ , Jaime…”

He pauses just long enough to say, “Not quite yet, I’m not done here,” and bite playfully at her thigh before returning his focus to her cunt. What a thing of wonder it is, pink and slick and with a scent that drives him absolutely wild. He feels a short, low laugh rumble through her, then swiftly get cut off as a twist of his fingers makes her gasp.

When climax overtakes her, it’s with such force that she accidentally kicks him in the side. Jaime doesn’t care. He’s too busy glorying in the sight of her, abandoned to rapture, her fingers grasping the sheets so tightly she pulls them away from the mattress.

He grins, ridiculously pleased with himself and feeling so damned  _ lucky _ , to have the chance to bring such joy to such an incredible woman.

And then, he does it again.

This time, he stops just before she can reach bliss. Brienne moans in protest when he lifts his head, allowing his fingers to dally just enough to keep her perched on the edge. “Something wrong, Brienne?”

“Cruel,” she pants.

He has to move his hand as he repositions himself, bracing his forearms on either side of her broad shoulders. Brienne surprises him by grasping at the back of his neck and dragging him down into a positively ferocious kiss. Her other hand grabs hard around his hip, insistently pulling him towards her. She’s bold enough now to reach between their bodies to grasp his cock, and Jaime shudders, groaning through the kiss. Much more of that and he really would be lost -- but she draws him towards her entrance, clearly eager to feel him inside her.

He sets the pace, though, with deliberately slow and shallow thrusts, enough to hold her balanced at the precipice of rapture. It’s torture for him, too, but  _ oh _ , how much sweeter the satisfaction will be. Brienne makes frustrated little noises against his mouth, her hands grabbing at his body, urging him on. He can feel her practically vibrating with need. Her long legs hook around his, trying to use that leverage to draw his cock in deeper. Still, Jaime withholds, giving her no more than teasing contact.

She pushes at his shoulders, pulling her face away from his and crying his name again. “ _ Jaime _ .” Demanding, this time, not soft and pliant.

He likes the sound of it. “Patience, wench,” he says, grinning.

Her nose crinkles. “‘Wench,’ now, is it? Or is it ‘lady’? Or ‘ser’?”

“All.” He kisses her again, drawing her lower lip briefly between his teeth. “Everything. Whoever told you that you can only be one thing?” She clutches at the back of his head as his teeth graze down her throat. “You are my lady, and my comrade in arms, and my darling wench, and  _ all _ of them Brienne, and all precious to me.”

He plunges fully into her then, and she shouts her pleasure, tightening around him in delicious ripples. He rides her through the spasms, gradually quickening the rhythm of long, pounding strokes, hardly giving her time to recover from one burst of ecstasy before driving her to another. Her legs hitch up, her arms clasping him close, and his head drops alongside hers, so that they are touching tip to toe, moving together as one. Each time he moves within her, a little “Yes” escapes her, half-shouted, half-sighed.

When the pressure inside him becomes too great to bear any longer, he withdraws only just in time to spend himself on the sheets, then collapses with his head pillowed on her breast. They lay together in a sweaty tangle for several minutes. Brienne’s calloused fingers move lightly through his hair, such a soothing gesture, and Jaime allows himself to relax into it, awash in a pleasant dizziness.

What seems a long while later, she says, “This doesn’t solve the question of how we’re meant to behave with each other,” Brienne says.

“Doesn’t it?” Jaime rouses himself up off her chest at last, rolling to his side and kissing her shoulder as he does so. “I’d be perfectly happy to continue behaving like this for as long as we can.”

“You  _ know _ what I mean.” She turns on her side, too, facing him.

“I do.” He props his head up against his stump, allowing his fingers to trail idly over her arm. “Since neither of us knows what in the world we’re supposed to be doing, I suppose we’ll just have to make it up.” His eyes crinkle mischievously at the corners. “Fuck tradition. Isn’t that what we decided? And you  _ are _ the first lady knight, after all. You can be courted however you damn well please. If you want me to play at chivalry with you in public--” 

But she’s already shaking her head. “That would feel like… like pretense. That’s not who we are.”

“No,” Jaime says. “No, chivalry is a game, and this is no game.”

Her jaw trembles a bit, as though she’s suppressing some hiccup of emotion. “I’m… glad to hear you say that.”

Jaime drops his eyes. “And if you-- Look, I know that associating with me could cause problems for you. I may have gained some ground coming here and fighting for the Starks, but I’m not exactly the most welcome dinner guest in the Seven Kingdoms. If you’d rather… be discreet…”

“I am  _ not _ ashamed of you.” She says it with such ferocity that she sits up a little. “I have no intention of hiding.”

Hot, absurd tears sting at the back of Jaime’s eyes. “And I, my lady, am glad to hear  _ you _ say  _ that _ .”

Brienne strokes his cheek, rubbing at his beard, then cups the back of his head and leans in, dropping the gentlest kisses Jaime has ever known onto each of his eyelids.

_ ‘I still don’t know if I deserve this,’ _ Jaime thinks,  _ ‘whatever Tyrion has to say about it. I don’t think the finest, most honorable man on the face of the earth could deserve this. But I will spend the rest of my days trying.’ _

 

*


End file.
